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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28716828">Exact Change</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/HellKnightInShiningArmor/pseuds/HellKnightInShiningArmor'>HellKnightInShiningArmor</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>It Still Pays More Than The UNSC [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Doom (Video Games), Half-Life, Halo (Video Games) &amp; Related Fandoms</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Multi, They/them pronouns for Doom Slayer, a headbutt is like a kiss probably, freeguy117 apartment au, well it is within the apartmemt au but John is gettong a job</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-01-12</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-01-12</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-13 10:42:25</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Not Rated</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>2,315</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28716828</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/HellKnightInShiningArmor/pseuds/HellKnightInShiningArmor</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>A job at the local McDonald's might just be a good step to recovery or at the very least provide some interesting perks.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Doom Marine | Doom Slayer | Doomguy/Gordon Freeman/John-117 | Master Chief</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>It Still Pays More Than The UNSC [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/2109897</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>6</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>26</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Exact Change</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>This was going to be good for him.</p><p>John thought if he kept repeating the phrase to himself in his head it would come true. It was not working all too well.</p><p>Cortana had suggested that it would help, and his roommates seemed in favor of the idea. It couldn't be that bad, could be? Sure, maybe his two rowdy teammates might give him a bum steer, but Cortana wouldn't dare convince himself to do something she deemed harmful to his well-being. Part of it was that she would be out of a concrete physical form if she let that happen, but another part was because she cared about him. She wanted him to enjoy this new chance at life he had been given. She wouldn't want him to take this leap if she didn't think he could handle it.</p><p>Even with all that solid reasoning behind him on the quick drive over, he was still having trouble convincing himself that either of those statements were true as his no-slip work shoes hit the curb of the McDonald's positioned in the middle of a city center of faceless dirt malls and poor imitations of business high rises. </p><p>This choice of employment was a rather tactful one of he did say so himself. It gave him connectivity with the "modern" world and its cultural and dietary habits. It was well-lit with wide windows that gave a full view of the mundane road ahead and provided the illusion of being clean which eliminated his usual concerns about safety, cleanliness, and ability to escape in the incident of...let's say....a demonic creature straight from the nine circles hosting two man-eating parasites. Plus, this corporate location was facing heavy pressure to meet a Veteran hiring quota from headquarters which meant they were willing to overlook the slight issue of his identification papers making him not a legal resident and also by happenstance aligning him with a military branch that doesn't exist from 500 years in the future.</p><p>However, the most important part about this choice of employment, at least from what little Cortana had divulged after arranging his first interview, was its use to warm John up to meeting new people. </p><p>Yeah, he was going to make so many new friends when his neural interface scarring made him look like a lopsided McGriddle.</p><p>They had put John on the night shift. He had absolutely no clue why. It wasn't like a 7 foot tall man covered in battle wounds would scare off the highly esteemed consumers of such hits like Fish McBites and the McPizza, and the McHawaiian for the more devout Catholics within the crowd. It wasn't like walking in in his neatly pressed grey uniform branded with the corporate unity symbol of golden arches to a restaurant where even the typical crowd of flies had left for the night felt like a gesture of pity. </p><p>He settled into his station manning the front lines, or well as much of a register designed for someone with juvenile reading and computation skills to navigate could be considered the frontlines.</p><p>He glanced at the bank of self-order kiosks blinking and switching through artistic renditions of various ground up meat slop on a bun just beyond his command station of fake marble. Cortana easily could have spent the evening there. The company would have been nice if nothing else. It certainly would have beaten the periodic rumble of cars passing by to much better places than a discount patty vendor.</p><p>John guessed this was one of things he had to face alone.</p><p>Despite his distaste for the sentiment, he seemed to acknowledge that as fact much easier than thinking that burger flipping was going to teach him some amazing life lesson. </p><p>The silence was settling in. Not even the dull rattle of kitchen equipment or pop of grease from whoever had taken refuge in the bowels of the kitchen could alleviate the emptiness filling his ears and settling into his whole being. Even with all the loss he had faced, the prospect of being this isolated did not sit well with him. What he wouldn't do to have a bit of company, just a little idle chatter like back in the day of helmet communication links.</p><p>The electronic doorbell made its jubilant little tone.</p><p>He stood at attention behind the register. </p><p>Finally, a customer. </p><p>Finally, a chance to prove to himself that he could succeed at something constructive.</p><p>"Hey, hot stuff! And I'm not talking about the grease."</p><p>Curse what horrible sense of humor his luck had.</p><p>He knew that voice anywhere. There was only one person across the entire vast expanse of space who spoke with such a low register and did not have the common sense not to blurt out such a dorky comment. </p><p>Of course, his never-ending well of moral support and combat buddy as well as long-term roommate was here on his first day of work. </p><p>Of course, the Doom Slayer had showed up at this desolate McDonald's to make his first day of work all the more degrading. </p><p>As if to rub salt into the wound, his other roommate who also had turned a temporary engagement for void walker clean up into a deep mutual bond was also there, cheerily waving behind the first customer to step foot into this miserable little McDonald's since his shift started. Doctor Gordon Freeman wasn't even allowed to drive the secondary care due to his subpar visual acuity, and yet, he was here and happy to enable Slayer's antics.</p><p>There wasn't even an obvious policy violation he could usher his supposedly well-meaning guest out for. For once, they were both properly dressed at this hour, shoes and shirts on, masks properly situated, and not even a stray bug to Freeman's name. Of all the nights they were coordinated perfectly, it had to be tonight. Curse his dumb luck.</p><p>The procedure. At the very least, his  higher-ranking corporate officers had left him a strategy to dealing with all customers, including his rather difficult partners who know were staring slack-jawed at the luminescent menu board above him. It was a simple and straightforward, a script he committed to memory to robotically repeat for just such an occasion. He was sure there was some type of irony in all of that Cortana would have happily pointed out, but for now, he had an order to carry out.</p><p>"Hi. Welcome to McDonald's. May I take your order?" John asked with as much pep as his gravely voice could manage, which was about the same amount as there was Grade A chicken was in their nuggets.</p><p>Silence.</p><p>Of course he didn't get a response. Freeman had some inability or stubborn refusal to use his voice, and besides an instantaneous, blurted out remark, Slayer was not well-known for their poetic turns of phrases.</p><p>John had nothing better to stand there and wait, tense smile hidden behind his mask branded with the omnipresent yellow m of the franchise and nails digging into the scratchy plasterboard under the faux marble counter facade.<br/>
A first order attempt: a breakfast request that did not adhere to the ever loosening rules and regulations of what times eggs could be placed on the griddle.</p><p>A second order attempt: a heavy debate about why a McChicken patty, despite being breaded could not constitute a bun.</p><p>A third order attempt: a small bounty from the value menu all dictated with a rambling cadence by the Slayer. A success.</p><p>The order assembly was simple, just a matter of carefully placing the hoard of gratuitously chemically engineered taste of idealized America circa the early 21st century into a flimsy paper back. </p><p>No sooner had his roommates come to torment him about the status of his precious ice cream machine had they left relatively peaceful. They were resigned to devour their meal on a cheap plastic bench and then disappear into the night like raccoons. They were no longer his duty to treat with the superfluous guise of excellent customer-employee communication.</p><p>Silence set in again.</p><p>His fingers twitched and tapped against the side of the register.</p><p>His eyes flicked to his two customers who seemed too enthralled in laying out their treasure trove of high cholesterol to even tease him for his open admiration. </p><p>He resorted to sorting the extra sauce and silverware buckets to the right of his station. The sense of order was reassuring.</p><p>The oil vats let out lazy pops.</p><p>The ice machine rattled and whined under new weight.</p><p>The sound of footsteps echoed through the empty tile dining room.</p><p>The sound of footsteps?</p><p>John did not need to check beyond his cozy cubbyhole of fancy ketchup and overstocked McFlurry ingredients to know what was waiting for him beyond the counter. Much like their voice, the Slayer's impatient drumming of their large fingertips against his service counter was impossible to miss.</p><p>John popped up over the counter. The Slayer and Freeman both met him with slight impatient gazes. Fine, a little mental standoff was hardly the worst thing that came to mind. At the very least, it didn't run the risk of property damage. </p><p>After a few moments of letting his slightly abnormal blue eyes bore holes through his two valued customers, John finally opened his mouth to speak. </p><p>The Slayer was more than happy to cut off his customer service spiel with their own direct statement of grievances.</p><p>"My boyfriend asked for no pickles." </p><p>Of all the ridiculous things John had heard since he had started his brief career in fast food, this has to be the cherry on top of this sundae of utter incompetence served by the general public.</p><p>First off, asking Freeman to actually ask for no pickles would be like asking him to fit in a mini coupe. It simply wasn't going to happen. </p><p>Second of all, despite his appearance, the rail-thin doctor loitering on the other side of the pick-up counter had the palate of a raging fratboy. John was pretty sure he had seen him eating just the powdered cheese out of the microwave pasta just the other night. Aside from warding off an inevitable cause of scurvy with the progression of his typical diet, two measly pickles slathered in plastic cheese wouldn't make any difference to Freeman.</p><p>And last but certainly not least was the fact that the order ticket clutched in his fist did not indicate any alterations to the lousy two dollar cheeseburger. Sure, maybe his clientele was from slightly altered timelines, but that would not justify such an utter lack of menu inspection. He had not had one of these miserable excuses for a quick burger since he was maybe five, but even he knew that brined cucumbers that left two soggy footprints on the compressed top bun were critical to this Earthen testament to progress. There was no excuse, not even a jarhead like Slayer, could feign ignorance to the fact of a cheeseburgers composition. </p><p>He hated losing. It was a petty and somewhat childish habit to cling to. He would like to think he had gotten better at tempering those tendencies, but at moments like these, it took all his restraint to not adhere the smudged receipt to the Slayer forehead with the fluorescent yellow order number sticker to truly rub their own failings right in their face. It was only natural to be competitive. It sure wasn't helpful for customer service, but it was instinct based on decades of surviving the worst of what the universe had to throw at him.</p><p>He also didn't want to have that cheaply wrapped burger come out of his salary. With deductions like that, he would be reduced down to pennies an hour, and there was no way the Master Chief was reducing himself to standing over a grease vat just to look pretty. </p><p>He would have to approach this reasonably. A cheeseburger with pickles was not an acceptable loss.<br/>
A first attempt: a simple correction.</p><p>"Doom, that's your order name. Yeah? Now, I want to believe you. We think the customer is always right, but your ticket says to make it as it comes." </p><p>The Slayer squinted for a moment at the smudged ink on the receipt before shaking their head. </p><p>It was worth a shot. </p><p>A second attempt: an appeal to a voice of reason.</p><p>"Doc, I know you like pickles. Can't you provide backup for me this once?"</p><p>He received a cat that ate the canary grin from Freeman instead of an answer. John knew exactly what that meant. They were in cahoots. No amount of reasonable conversation would correct that. </p><p>Which meant he had no their choice than a third attempt: a bribe.</p><p>"What if instead of replacing the item, I gave you something of equal or greater value."</p><p>The sentiment sounded so to the script, he doubted it would arise suspicion for what he was about to do.</p><p>Gordon and Slayer exchanged looks. If they knew his motivations, they did not make it apparent.</p><p>With a reluctant nod, the Slayer approached closer the meager amount of counter space, a curious look in contrast to their typically stern expression.</p><p>Leaning over the counter, John delivered exactly what he promised, something of equal or lesser value, more specifically a headbutt which served as an ideal indirect kiss.</p><p>Without missing a beat, he leaped right back into script with an unusual amount of pep, "Thank you for choosing McDonald's. Will that be all for you today?"</p><p>The Slayer, just a tiny bit dumbstruck at one of the first instances of pda being beside a McCafe brewing station, once again did not provide a response.</p><p>John wasn't too worried about it. He knew that wasn't ideal technique for customer disputes, but he was pretty sure he saved the company valuable nickels with his quick thinking. Maybe this job had its occasional perks.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>This was written feverently after the worst syllabus test I have ever witnessed. Your feedback and criticism is more than welcome on this one.</p></blockquote></div></div>
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